Cold Turkey
by MyPrivateLaughter
Summary: John is suspicious about Sherlock's motives for the 'minor alterations' in their friendship. Is it possible Sherlock's understanding of love is purely chemical? How long can Sherlock last without his new favourite drug?
1. Chapter 1

_NB: _ _Thought I'd go for something more fluffy... hope you like! Still trying to avoid un-Johnlockian over the top declarations of love ;)_

_._

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"John? John, where are you?"

"Here, Sherlock," John calls back. "I've just got in the shower."

Predictably, Sherlock immediately enters the bathroom. Without knocking.

"What's wrong?" John asks from under the water, not bothering to glance around the shower curtain.

"I need you to do that thing. The 'listening' thing."

"Can it wait until I'm out of the shower?"

"Does it have to?"

John hears Sherlock drop the lid of the toilet and assumes he's now sitting down. "I'm in the shower, Sherlock. I'm naked."

"I talk to you all the time when you're naked."

"Yes, but usually you are too."

"Do I need to be naked too, then?" John can picture Sherlock's confused face.

"I doubt that would be productive."

"Fine, shut up and listen then. I need to think."

"Go ahead," John says, reaching for his shampoo.

"Basically, I think it comes down to the length of the grass. Obviously there's other ways it could be short, perhaps someone else could have cut it. Is that a secure enough alibi for the gardener? Probably not. He didn't do it though, that much is obvious."

"How?"

"Well, his hands are small, aren't they? Like yours. There's no way he could have made bruises like that. No, though, I'm missing something… I'm definitely missing something. John. John?"

"What?"

"John!"

"What?" He pulls back the shower curtain and is confronted by Sherlock smiling at him.

"I just wanted you to kiss me."

"Seriously?"

Sherlock steps forwards and puts one of his hands on John's wet cheek. "Seriously," he murmurs, in that irresistible husky voice.

John complies. He touches his lips to his friends but Sherlock pulls him deeper, biting his lower lip, causing John to let out an inadvertent moan and forget that he is standing dripping wet in the bath. He runs his damp hands through Sherlock's curls.

"I know!" Sherlock suddenly declares, breaking off the kiss like a slap in the face. "Of course! The pesticide!"

"What?"

"The pesticide on the gardeners clothes! Thank you, John, that was exactly what I needed." And without another word the detective darts from the room, leaving John dripping wet and bemused, with the shower still running. He can't help but feeling he's been used somehow.

* * *

><p>He broaches the subject with Sherlock later, after the case has been solved and Sherlock is doing god knows what on the doctor's laptop.<p>

"You haven't been bored recently. Not in a while," John comments, turning off the TV.

"Well observed." Sherlock doesn't look up but then adds. "I assume you will also deduce that as the work flow hasn't altered, nor has my diet, habitat or circle friends, my lack of the usual ennui between cases is thanks to the minor alterations we have recently made to our relationship."

"Minor alterations?"

"Additions?" Sherlock suggests.

"_Minor_?"

Sherlock smirks at him. "Improvements?"

John accepts this with a nod. "So it helps you then, us having a physical relationship."

"Well, it's a sociably acceptable way to get kicks, isn't it?"

"Kissing me?"

"Yes, and it helps me to think."

"You do think while we kiss then?"

"You don't?"

"Not really, no."

Sherlock makes a face to show that this is interesting, but doesn't surprise him.

"Why does it help?" John presses.

"Naturally the release of chemicals increases heart rate, brain activity – you're a doctor, John."

"So basically," John says, confirming his suspicions, "I'm just your new drug."

"Of course," Sherlock replies. "Testosterone, pheromones, dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin; the release of the chemicals is what makes me want you in the first place. Most people, boring people, just ignore these facts for the sake of sentiment, but why not put these things to good use?"

John shrugs, trying hard to not show Sherlock that this bothers him. "Cheaper than heroin, I suppose."

"Yes, and more available. And better for my health."

"Fantastic. Good for you."

"What?" Sherlock asks, suddenly twigging that John isn't impressed. "Not good? John? What?"

"No, not good, Sherlock. Excuse me if I don't fancy you solving your cases while we're meant to be making love."

"Love?" Sherlock says it as if it's an alien concept, something he's 'deleted'.

"Yes, love, it's what humans feel for each other. It's what I stupidly thought you were capable of feeling. Stupid."

"Oh please," Sherlock sneers. "You're offended by this? How completely uninteresting of you."

"No, there's a difference, you know, between 'uninteresting' and 'normal'," John counters. The derision in Sherlock's eyes cuts him.

Sherlock looks indifferent to this nuance. "Is there?"

"I'm allowed to want you to love me, Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Yes. That's not boring."

Sherlock holds his gaze with an unreadable stare.

_Machine_, John thinks. When he least expects it, Sherlock will speak like this and John feels like they are back to day one and the detective is wearing an unreadable metal mask.

Eventually, Sherlock turns back to the laptop, clearly thinking the conversation is over.

John begins to storm up the stairs to the bedroom that was never used anymore. Then he changes his mind, walks back into the living room, snatches up his laptop from in front of Sherlock and then leaves.

* * *

><p>John starts by sitting on his bed and writing up some of the blog but finds it an impossible urge to add in comments to the effect of 'Sherlock is a heartless bastard'. Instead he picks up a book.<p>

Around ten o'clock, his phone chirrups.

_Come downstairs. SH_

When John doesn't reply, this is followed up a few minutes later with:

_Please._

John fingers his phone for a moment then taps in:

_Sorry, you're going to have to go cold turkey._

To John's surprise anddisappointment, Sherlock doesn't text back again. He tries to imagine what the detective is doing downstairs. Would he have gone to bed? Probably not. It's possible he's already forgotten that John had left him in a sulk. He may not have noticed in the first place.

Then again, he may have had a surprise visit from one of his more stealthy 'enemies'. It wouldn't be unheard of. At this very moment, Sherlock may have a wire tightening around his neck. John would go downstairs in the morning to find a lifeless flatmate and an eternity of guilt.

This is why John dislikes spending time away from Sherlock. This and an irrational fear that the next time John claps eyes on his friend, Sherlock will have found his way onto another rooftop.

John pulls off his clothes and gets under his bed sheets, refusing to go downstairs to brush his teeth. Before he turns off the light, however, he detects a creak on the stairs outside his room.

A note of folded paper slides under the door.

John pauses momentarily then, when he hears retreating footsteps, he slides out of bed and picks it.

_The traditional psychological view sees love as being a combination of companionate love and passionate love. Passionate love is intense longing, and is often accompanied by physiological arousal (shortness of breath, rapid heart rate); companionate love is affection and a feeling of intimacy not accompanied by physiological arousal._

_SH_

John picks up his phone and texts:

_You had to look it up on wikipedia?_

Immediately there's a reply, as if he'd been waiting.

_Come to bed_. _SH_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you to the people who reviewed the last chapter. Seriously, I squealed like a complete loon when reading them!_

_._

_._

Love. _Love. _Love.

… Love?

It's one of those words. A bad word.

There are some words that Sherlock just doesn't like. 'No' – that's a good word. 'Word' itself is alright. But 'love'… It's meaning is completely ambiguous. It's like 'god' or 'fun', everyone has their own idea of what it means. It's impossible to know what is being implied when it is said.

And what does John want? Breakfast in bed and serenaded declarations of affection? Really?

Sherlock always appreciated the fact that John isn't a needy person, nor someone who is overly expressive of his 'feelings'. I mean, really, what is there to say?

'I love you. I need you. Oh baby. Oh baby.'

It's disgusting that he would suddenly expect Sherlock to wax lyrical about how he feels. It's an imprecise science for anyone, let alone him.

Sherlock's mind is snapped from its reverie by an out of place sound from above him. John? Is he coming down? Will he let Sherlock kiss him? Can Sherlock continue his search for the most sensitive patch of skin?

No.

Maybe he fell out of bed. Is he having nightmares?

He can't stay up there forever, Sherlock reminds himself. The flat is beginning to grow light from the dawn that is gathering outside on Baker Street. Soon John will come down to eat. That's one of his many weaknesses, the desire to eat.

Is this what Sherlock's to expect? This is the joy of being in a sexual relationship? True, John has been moody before, but usually about things such as decomposing bodies in inconvenient places or experiments he wasn't aware he was partaking in.

Will John always want him to be more?

More empathetic.

More emotional.

More _human_?

* * *

><p>"Sherlock. Sherlock, what happened to the bread?"<p>

Sherlock doesn't reply or turn around, but he can't prevent a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. John does sound yummy when pissed off.

"And where's the milk I bought yesterday? Seriously? Did you _hide _them?"

And it was so worth it.

Sherlock stretches his head around and pulls a face with an exaggerated shrug. "You make your own deductions, John."

John mutters something offensive under his breath and storms into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Sherlock grabs up a piece of paper from the desk and scrawls the first thing that comes to mind on it. Then he slides it under the bathroom door.

For the next five minutes, Sherlock paces the room, then he drops onto the sofa and waits for three and a half minutes. Finally, John emerges.

"Are these your idea of love letters?" he demands, waving the note in the air.

Sherlock swings his legs around to sit up straight. "Would serenading my feelings be preferable?"

"All you wrote is that I smell nice. The words 'you smell nice to me' do not constitute a testimony of love."

"Body odor is a sensory cue critical for mate selection because it is a signal of immunological health."

"You're going to have to do better than that."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I don't know which words to use. They're all too ambiguous."

"How about one word. I'll give you a clue, it begins with 's'."

"Sex?"

* * *

><p>"Where's your boyfriend?" Donovan asks snidely as Sherlock slips under the police tape alone. It's an attempt to be offensive. No one at Scotland Yard is privy to what happens at night in 221B Baker Street. "Dumped you, has he?"<p>

Sherlock doesn't acknowledge her presence. He walks straight past her into the house that's buzzing with police and forensics people. Donovan's an idiot. John would never leave him. No matter what. John has far too many feelings. Another flaw. No, John would never 'dump' him. Definitely not.

Lestrade meets him at the door to the kitchen. He bears unmistakable signs of stress and sleep deprivation. "Sherlock. Thanks for coming. Here's the wife's statement. I've just had another call. Could you text me later? Where's John?"

Sherlock treats the detective inspector to the glare that people seem to find the most intimidating.

"Oh dear," Lestrade responds. "What did you do?"

Sherlock sighs as if he's bored. "Nothing."

"Sir," Donovan calls from the front door.

"Coming," Lestrade calls, and then says to Sherlock, "Right, fine. We'll talk later then." He walks halfway out of the house then turns back. "Oh, and I usually find a bunch of flowers does the trick, by the way."

_Flowers_. No wonder it's over a month since Lestrade has had intercourse. Of any kind.

John doesn't like flowers. He feels guilty letting them die whenever Mrs Hudson brings some in. Flowers. What a ridiculous manifestation.

Even with a large part of his brain engaged in solving the John problem, Sherlock can immediately ascertain the identity of the killer and her likely whereabouts. Sometimes he suspects Lestrade doesn't even try.

* * *

><p>Early the next morning, Sherlock writes John another love letter.<p>

_I haven't eaten or slept in 44 hours. SH_

He takes it upstairs to the hateful room that John has suddenly claimed. The door is slightly ajar so Sherlock doesn't hesitate to go inside.

John's asleep on his side, his mouth slightly open. The duvet has fallen back to reveal the scarred skin of his left shoulder. Sherlock doesn't touch the skin. He knows John sleeps lightly. He lays the note on the pillow next to John's head. He also puts the bread, milk, teabags and instant coffee in a pile next to the bed. Much better than flowers.


	3. Chapter 3

_Final chapter! Thank you again for the reviews. I'm just so excited to have… 9 lol! If you like, I'll certainly provide some more Johnlock fluffity-fluff ;)_

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"Sherlock couldn't make it then?" Stamford quips. He knows Sherlock never 'makes it' to anything that could be considered a social occasion.

John shrugs. "No."

Having barely spoken to Sherlock in the last three days, John really doesn't want to talk about him. He had thought a night out drinking with Stamford would be a good idea to get the thought of Sherlock out of his head, but the moment he stepped into the pub he realised this was a mistake. There's nothing like the sound of people being happy to remind you of how unhappy you are.

"So what's it like having him back from the dead?" Stamford laughs, swigging his beer like it's orange juice. "I bet you gave him one hell of a black eye."

John offers a strained smile across the small table. "Let's just say I doubt he'll be faking his own death again any time soon. Or I will actually kill him."

"I always knew he was crazy but that really was beyond. All that stuff that was in the newspapers… Well," he clears his throat, "I can tell you don't really want to talk about it."

John instantly feels guilty for his sullen face. Stamford is probably the closest he's had to a 'normal' friend since leaving the army. But he can't just sit and listen to some mindless Sherlock banter. "Sorry, no. It's just we've had a bit of a... domestic. Sherlock's being a complete…"

"He's being a bit too much 'Sherlock Holmes'?" Stamford suggests.

"Yes, a good deal too much. Could we just _not_ talk about him?"

The truth is that John is fed up of not being with Sherlock. He had hoped Sherlock would just crawl into his bed and explain how they are no longer two separate entities while continuing his taste test of Johns pores. Instead, Sherlock had gone on some sort of hunger strike, seemingly in hopes of having John admit that love is nothing more than a chemical imbalance.

There has been a large portion of John's life in which he did not share a bed with Sherlock Holmes, but now the emptiness feels intolerable. How is a person supposed to rest without a chiselled man staring incessantly and sighing or typing manically long into the night or monitoring the moisture output of your breath?

As John wonders if perhaps he does want to talk about Sherlock, after all, Stamford witters on about his new diet and how his youngest won a science competition. This is exactly why Sherlock always avoids nights out with Stamford. They are completely and unavoidably normal.

At around half nine, John's phone vibrates in his pocket. He can't help but be pleased to see that it's Sherlock.

_John, I need you. SH_

While Stamford continues talking, John quickly responds:

_Physically, emotionally or for a case?_

He carefully places the phone on the table in front of him. He's trying not to feel too much optimism about the motives behind this text. The chances are low that Sherlock has come to his sense and John tries not to seem interested when the phone lights up again.

Stamford clearly suspects something though, as he says, "Sherlock?"

"Yeah," John says and reads the message.

_Whichever means you'll get here quickest. It's important. 29 Finsbury Park Road._

* * *

><p>It takes less than five minutes for John to make his excuses to Stamford and to find a taxi. Stamford is a good friend, John decides on his way to Finsbury Park. He hadn't looked resentful or bemused at John's sudden exit. He had almost seemed understanding, despite John not really understanding the decision himself.<p>

The two-story terrace residences of Finsbury Park road are flashing blue in the light of the police cars. The taxi pulls to a halt outside the police line and John gets out, scanning the swarm of police for that distinctive man. As soon as Sherlock sees him, he beelines towards John and guides him to one side.

"Well?" John demands. "What's going on then?"

Sherlock looks around them at the three police cars and yards of yellow police tape. "Oh, this? Nothing. He's not really dead, just hiding in Devon."

"Oh god." John feels a sinking in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock's eyes tell him that a massively romantic apology is not on the cards. "What am I doing here then?"

"I need you to act normal with me. Just act as if you aren't mad with me for a moment."

"What? Why?"

Sherlock shrugs. "To prove a point."

John brain freezes for a moment out of pure frustration. How could he have possibly persuaded himself that he was in love with this man, of all men? "Is that all I'm here for? To make them think I'm not pissed off with you? Sherlock, I was out with someone."

"What, a date?" Sherlock sneers.

"No, of course not. Don't be facetious. "

"I know. It was Stamford. No wonder you came so quickly."

"Sherlock," Lestrade approaches, looking worn out, "are you two coming in or what?"

Sherlock ignores him entirely and continues glaring at John. "I bet you were having a riveting time discussing his wife's foot disease."

"I'd prefer to talk about her foot disease than be a part of your social disorder."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Then, out of curiosity, why did you come then? In case you weren't aware, masochism is also a personality disorder."

"Says the man who hasn't eaten in three days."

"Boys -" Lestrade attempts to interrupt, but Sherlock raises a hand to cover the detective inspector's face.

"Yes, well, whose fault is that?"

Lestrade swears and leaves them to it, walking back to the police car.

"Are you seriously suggesting I am responsible for your not eating?" John demands. "I'm not your keeper, Sherlock."

Sherlock smirks. "Don't pretend that's not what you'd like to be."

"You are unbelievable! I don't know why I bother!"

"Because you love me."

"I thought you don't believe in love," John hisses back.

"I never said that."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't. If you can manage to cast your tiny brain back, what were actually discussing three days ago was the chemical basis for sexual and emotional arousal."

"Ah, yes! The chemicals! How could I forget?"

"Because you have the intellect of a three year-old."

"And you have the emotional understanding of a three year-old," John bites back.

"I know which one I'd prefer."

"Yes," John says, nodding angrily, "and that is exactly your problem."

"I don't have a 'problem'," Sherlock spits.

"Oh no? Been functioning well over the last couple of days, have you?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes and John wonders if he's actually made a valid point. He also is suddenly more aware that there are actually several members of the police force nearby, who are no doubt listening to the argument with pleasure. John attempts to discern how much of their conversation thus far would come across as homoerotic. He also wonders how much he really cares.

"Ok, fine, I'm _sorry_." Sherlock suddenly says, coughing the words out as if he wants them to go unnoticed.

John pauses then says, with suspicion in his voice, "Really? For what?"

"For not agreeing with your definition of love."

It's not really clear if this is a real apology or another way of Sherlock proving he is right. John isn't taking any chances. But there's something fierce and sincere in Sherlock's eyes that makes John feel as though he is gripped by the collar and forced against a wall.

"But don't you see that it's so much better if it's not some intangible, woolly notion?" Sherlock breathes. "You make me produce _chemicals_, John! My desire to have them in my blood stream makes me feel I can't function without you. I've never been addicted to any drug like I am addicted to you. You make me feel _better_."

Definitely homoerotic.

There's no escaping it now.

But suddenly, and just like that, John isn't mad anymore. Not in the slightest. "You could have written that in one of your love letters," he comments. There's a small debate internally as to the best course of action but he quickly settles on kissing Sherlock. He takes one of the detective's dry, slender hands and smiles up into those clear grey eyes.

Sherlock seems to physically relax, allowing his fingers to curl around John's as the doctor reaches up towards his lips.

The rush feels almost like the first time. Is it possible that in three days John could have forgotten quite how wonderful kissing Sherlock is?

"Fucking hell! Really?" John hears Lestrade saying somewhere behind them. "How did I not see that coming?"

John doesn't care. His whole body is on fire.

As their lips part, Sherlock murmurs, "God, I missed that."

"Yeah. …Yeah."

* * *

><p>Later that night, Sherlock resumes his examination of John's hair follicles and which stimuli will generate goose bumps, or piloerection as he insists on calling it. The soft down of his stomach is the current area of interest and John has to concentrate very hard on not feeling ticklish as Sherlock slips his tongue across his navel.<p>

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

John clears his throat then goes for it. "I hope you never try to give me up."

"Are we still talking in the John is a drug metaphor here?" Sherlock clarifies, looking up with a gorgeous smile.

John nods.

Sherlock wriggles up the bed and lightly kisses the skin next to John's ear. Then he whispers, "John, if it is acceptable, I intend to go on a bender."

John chuckles and strokes his hand through Sherlock's lovely hair. Sherlock burrows his head into the doctors neck and gently nips the skin between his lips, making John shiver.

"Good?" Sherlock whispers.

"Good."

.

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_The End_


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